


Modern American Literature

by relucant



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, American Sign Language, Bottom Dean, First Time, Hand porn, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sign Language, Top Castiel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-10 03:18:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3274727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/relucant/pseuds/relucant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean slouched in the back corner of the small auditorium, watching the trickle of students still filtering through the door.  Predictably, the class seemed to be 90% freshmen, still shy and wide-eyed in their first semester.  He mentally kicked himself again for not getting his stupid English Lit requirements over and done with freshman year like everyone else.</p><p>"Still don't understand why a fuckin' Engineering major needs English classes," he grumbled to himself.</p><p>A serious-looking kid in front of him turned around with a frown.  "The ability to express oneself is important to all careers."</p><p>"You know what, blow me, Hemingway," Dean muttered, and the kid turned back around with a huff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [betts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/betts/gifts).



> for the hand porn queen, [betty days](http://bettydays.tumblr.com), and all the ECKC ladies <3

Dean slouched in the back corner of the small auditorium, watching the trickle of students still filtering through the door. Predictably, the class seemed to be 90% freshmen, still shy and wide-eyed in their first semester. He mentally kicked himself again for not getting his stupid English Lit requirements over and done with freshman year like everyone else.

"Still don't understand why a fuckin' Engineering major needs English classes," he grumbled to himself.

A serious-looking kid in front of him turned around with a frown. "The ability to express oneself is important to all careers."

"You know what, blow me, Hemingway," Dean muttered, and the kid turned back around with a huff.

He'd kept his fingers crossed for a hot professor, but the guy looked like he walked out of a hipster-English-teacher cliche, fiftyish with dark greying hair and a neat beard, right down to the fucking tweed coat with the weird elbow patches. Maybe he'd at least turn out to be one of those pretentious Dead Poets-type douchebags; he'd happily call him O Captain My Captain if it meant he got to rip up the Norton's Anthology of American Lit weighing down his backpack.

He caught sight of another guy around his own age standing in the front of the room, shifting awkwardly in the corner near the door and studying his shoes. Probably a grad student from the English department, he guessed, doing his TA duty.

 _Don't envy you, dude_ , he thought wryly, picturing the guy getting stuck grading fifty-odd English papers while the professor went off doing important English professor-y things, probably involving Scotch and cigars.

He watched him with vague interest for a few minutes, appreciating the shock of dark messy hair and the clean lines of his body under the button-up and slacks. But when a blonde girl sat down in the front row and waved, the guy looked up for the first time, and Dean felt his eyebrows shoot up. Even from all the way in the back row his eyes were startlingly blue, almost the same shade of his inexplicably backwards tie, and he found himself staring at chapped pink lips as he gave the girl a gummy smile.

 _Maybe this class'll be tolerable after all_ , he thought, sitting back with a grin. _Wonder if TAs have office hours._

"Good afternoon," boomed a voice from the front of the room, and half the class jumped in surprise. "Ah -- apologies," the professor mumbled, fiddling with a small mic clipped to his collar, and Dean snickered.

"Is this better?" the professor continued at a much more level volume, and a few students nodded dutifully. "Good. Anyway, good afternoon, and welcome to Intro to 20th Century American Literature. I'm your professor, Dr. Bass." Dean stifled a yawn, waiting for him to introduce his hot TA, but Dr. Bass just barrelled on. "I realize that many of you are taking this class as a core requirement, rather than a blistering fascination with Steinbeck or Vonnegut, but I hope you will still appreciate the value of studying literary works from a scholarly perspective."

Dean perked up a bit at that; if he could get away with writing papers on _Slaughterhouse-Five_ , his grade might even be salvageable.

He turned back to glance at the nameless TA, then blinked in surprise. Eyes closed, his hands were in constant motion, fingers forming intricate shapes flowing gracefully one into another. And his lips, Dean very much noticed, were mouthing along with the professor's words.

Dean stared in blank fascination for a full minute or two before shaking himself back to reality. The blonde girl was watching his hands intently, occasionally making short gestures that seemed to be questions, and there was a small video camera set up in the aisle, aimed at him. For the first time in his life, Dean cursed his lack of hearing impairment.

As inconspicuously as he could, Dean gathered his things and stood up, making his way to a desk closer to the front. A few bored faces turned to him, and he just shrugged, gesturing at the whiteboard where the syllabus was being projected. 

He tried to pay at least perfunctory attention to Dr. Bass' lecture, but his eyes kept drifting back to those hypnotic fingers and expressive lips. By halfway through the class he'd given up listening, figuring it was all in the syllabus anyway, and was idly brainstorming excuses to talk to the guy.

Finally Dr. Bass wound down, and Dean tuned back in long enough to catch the reading assignment for the next class, a T.S. Eliot poem. He groaned inwardly at the prospect of sitting reading _poetry_ , but at least, he figured, it would be short.

He packed up slowly, dawdling by his desk as the guy chatted briefly with the blonde girl, fingers flying. Finally she left, and as he turned to pack up the video camera, Dean wandered down the aisle.

"Uh, hey," he said before he could lose his nerve. The guy started, turning around, then raised his hand to his forehead in a precise salute. Dean kicked himself for assuming the he _could_ speak, and mimicked the gesture. "Sorry, I -- uh --"

Big blue eyes blinked at him confusedly for a second, then he smiled sheepishly. "Sorry," he said in an impossibly deep voice that made Dean think of smoke and whiskey. "It takes a moment to switch languages."

"I can imagine," Dean said. "Or I can't, I guess, since I'm a dumb American, but makes sense."

"As am I," he agreed, but he looked at Dean questioningly.

"Oh, uh. Heh." He rubbed the back of his neck. "So, uh, you're a translator?"

"Interpreter, technically, but yes."

"Do you, um… do you ever do private lessons? Like tutoring?"

The guy tilted his head, a gesture which Dean refused to find ridiculously adorable. "Occasionally… Why do you ask?"

"Uh, I got a new housemate who's deaf," Dean invented. "Thought it'd be nice to talk a little with him not on paper, but my schedule was already fixed, an' I don't really have room for an extra language class."

"Why don't you ask him?"

"Um -- I did, but we both got frustrated, not bein' able to explain shit, y'know…" Dean trailed off, embarrassment tingling in his cheeks. "It's cool, sorry, I just, I thought I'd ask." He turned to go, but a warm hand touched his elbow.

"I am not averse to the idea. Only startled."

Dean turned on his best Winchester smile. "Think I could buy you a coffee, then? If you got a minute free? I'm Dean Winchester, by the way," he said, sticking out his hand.

"Uh, I don't have class until 4:00, so… all right," he said. He took Dean's hand, the pad of his thumb warm against Dean's wrist. "And I'm Cas. Castiel Novak."

They wandered across the quad towards the cafe, enjoying the early September warmth, and Dean resisted the itch to press against Castiel's side.

"So I gotta ask," he said. "You just learn this for fun, or what?"

"No," Cas sighed. "My older brother was born deaf, so I had to learn. Though I think my childhood would have been more pleasant had I _not_ been able to talk with Gabriel."

"Yeah? Bad relationship?" Dean asked curiously. "Sorry, not to intrude or anything."

Cas waved him off. "No, we're quite close in our own way. He's just a lot to handle."

Dean nodded. "That's fuckin' awesome, though, jeez."

"It's not really," Cas admitted. "My parents learning, that is impressive. I was taught ASL alongside spoken English since I was a child, so I never had to learn it, no more than we learned English."

"Huh," Dean said. "Never thought about it like that."

"Do you have any siblings?"

Dean puffed up with obvious pride. "Little brother. Sammy. Started at Stanford just this semester."

"Stanford?" Cas said. "That's very prestigious."

"Yeah, little shit wants to be a lawyer. Gonna be the best, he got the brains."

Cas cocked his head again. "You're a senior in college, and interested in learning sign language for a housemate, you clearly have brains as well."

Dean shrugged awkwardly. "Nah, 'm only here 'cause my uncle Bobby insisted. Next year I'll be back in the garage."

"What's your major?"

"Mechanical engineering. All I'm good at is putting stuff together."

Cas stopped walking, staring at him in open bewilderment. "Dean -- mechanical engineering is responsible for everything that allows modern life to function."

"Yeah, well," Dean mumbled, rubbing at his neck.

Finally they slid into a booth, Dean clutching a black coffee and wrinkling his nose at Cas' foofy frappucino.

"I like it," Cas declared, and Dean resolutely ignored the way those long fingers curled around the cup.

"So how'd you end up as resident interpreter?" Dean asked, blowing on his coffee.

Cas shrugged. "Freshman year, my advisor pointed me to a stipend for ASL interpreters. I needed a part-time job anyway, and interpreting seemed less soul-sucking than working at the campus Applebee's. And now I have enough seniority to pick which classes I take on. I'm an English major, so reviewing freshman literature seemed valuable. And I'm always happy to help Julia."

"Julia?" Dean said. "The blonde? She your… you know?"

Cas blinked at him, then snorted. "No. She's a family friend. And a good friend of mine."

"Oh," Dean said, biting back a smile. "So, what -- you're still an undergrad?"

"Senior, yes. And you? You look somewhat old for a freshman English class…"

"Hey, fuck you, buddy," Dean said in mock offense. Cas recoiled, lifting his hands apologetically, and Dean laughed. "Yeah, I'm a senior too. Kept puttin' off this fuckin' requirement, 'til I realized I gotta take it this year if I wanna graduate on time. So here I am. Ugh."

"You don't like literature?"

Dean shrugged. "Love me some Vonnegut. An' I like sci-fi. But poetry, man. Not a fan."

"Have you read Eliot?"

"Nah, all I know's he wrote some shit about cats, and they just make me sneeze."

Cas looked at him, and Dean felt small and stupid under the weight of his stare.

"You haven't read Prufock, then?"

"Naw."

"There will be time to murder and create, / And time for all the works and days of hands / That lift and drop a question on your plate;" Cas intoned.

Dean blinked up at him, and Cas gave him a half-smile.

"Maybe you could help me with poetry too," he suggested.

"I'd like to," Cas said, his face brightening. "But -- I'd have to charge you, Dean. I wish I didn't, but I rely on every free hour for extra income."

"How much d'you charge?"

"$30 an hour, usually," Cas said, and Dean's face fell.

"I can't afford that," he admitted. "I can't afford much, honestly. I shouldn't've even asked you, I'm kind of a dick."

Cas watched him for a minute, biting his lip.

"What if," he began, and Dean looked up. "You said you fix cars, yes?"

"Yeah," Dean said slowly, and Cas shifted.

"Maybe we could -- I could tutor you for free, if you could fix our cars? Mine and Gabriel's?"

Dean blinked at him. "You realize you'd be stuck tutoring me for months, versus probably a couple hours on your cars, right?"

"And _you_ realize you'd be saving me paying thousands of dollars on our shitty cars, instead being paid a couple hundred for tutoring?" Cas retorted.

"I," Dean began indignantly, then shut up. "I guess so."

"Well," Cas said, grinning at him. He saluted Dean again, then his fingers danced for a second. "Hello, Dean."


	2. Chapter 2

Dean leaned in over the coffee table, clutching his mug and watching Cas' hands. He'd started the lesson mostly sneaking surreptitious looks at Cas' mouth, but by the time Cas was repeating the alphabet for the third time, he realized he was actually interested, watching the letters shape themselves in his hands.

"Can you try now?" Cas asked, and Dean blinked.

"Uh. Yeah. Well, no, but I'll try." He followed Cas' letters, clumsily, A to Z, and Cas smiled at him.

"You're good at this," he said. "You do have a talent for language."

"Me?" Dean scoffed. "Nah, just -- workin' with my hands, I guess."

"Well, that's fundamental." He gestured wordlessly, then waited.

"Uh, -- D -- ?" Cas repeated the action. "D -- e --" He snorted. "My name?"

"Uh-huh," Cas affirmed. "Finish it." Dean worked his way almost through his own name, and Cas helped him through the last letter. He sat back, and Dean stumbled through it on his own.

"See?" Cas said. "We've only been talking an hour, and you can already say your name. Can you say mine?"

Dean sat back, frustrated, but slowly formed the signs, and Cas' eyes lit up.

"You're a natural," he said, beaming. "You could talk to your roommate right now."

Dean's eyes flashed to him, and he coughed. "Um."

"Hm?"

"I. Um." He wiped his hands on his jeans, then sat back. "I lied to you."

Cas recoiled, eyes narrowed. "What? Why?"

"I just wanted to talk to you," Dean blurted. "I don't have a deaf roommate." He scrubbed his hand through his hair. "Though I do need help in poetry. An' I'd love to learn this shit-- and I actually could get a credit on this. If you still want a free mechanic. I'm sorry. I'm, uh -- kind of an idiot." He exhaled, tilting his head down.

Cas sat back, eyes wide and elbows on the table. "I don't understand."

"Yeah. 'Course. Forget it, OK?" He stood up, turning away, but Cas pressed a hesitant fingertip against his hand.

"Dean," he said. "I wouldn't mind maintaining our arrangement." He paused, twisting his thumb. "If you don't. I'm just a bit confused."

Dean looked down, rubbing the back of his neck. "I dunno, man. I couldn't help watching you, an' you looked so --" He bit back the so hot on the tip of his tongue, instead concluding lamely, "-- so interesting."

He glanced up, and Cas was still frowning at him, but the suspicious look had left his eyes. "So you… made up a deaf roommate?"

"Yeah, OK, not my best moment," he mumbled. "Look, I get it if you're creeped out. I don't always think things --"

"Are -- were you flirting with me?" Cas interrupted, and Dean choked out an embarrassed laugh.

"I guess not very well, if you gotta ask."

It was Cas' turn to blush, and Dean couldn't help lingering on the faint pink creeping up his cheeks. "I apologize. My, uh… 'people skills' are… 'rusty'."

Dean snorted, and the awkward tension dissipated. "Well, you ain't the one who made up a deaf roommate to talk to a cute dude, so you're already ahead of me." Cas' flush deepened, but he smiled shyly, and Dean tried valiantly to ignore the small, annoying lurch in his chest. "I meant it, though. This is awesome. S'like havin' a secret language."

"Yes," Cas agreed. "Until you realize that your brother has been telling you about his sex life -- with a gaggle of deaf kids watching behind you." 

"Oh God," Dean said, snorting. "I take it you speak from experience."

"Sizeable experience," Cas said with a sigh.

"Well, I think I got a ways to go before I can scar anyone, so at least you can take me out in public," Dean assured him.

"Good," Cas said. "It would be a shame to keep you locked in the basement."

"Oh _God_ ," Dean groaned, dropping his head to the table. "Always the quiet ones."

Cas blushed again, but a smile quirked at his mouth. It faded when he glanced at the clock. "We need to wrap up," he said regretfully. "I have class in twenty minutes."

Dean looked up, startled. "Shit," he swore, "didn't know it was this late. I gotta get changed and head to work."

"What do you do?"

"Uh, just a mechanic," Dean said. "Help out at my Uncle Bobby's garage. Hey, that reminds me -- when d'you want me to look at your car? Yours and your brother's?"

"Um, I'm free most evenings and weekends. But I don't expect you to take time from paying customers at work. And I'd prefer to put off subjecting you to Gabriel for as long as possible."

"Gotta admit, he sounds like a character," Dean said, and Cas snorted in assent. "Tell you what, shop's closed Sundays. Why don't you bring your car by Sunday afternoon an' I can take a look at it?"

"Your boss -- your uncle wouldn't mind?"

"Naw," Dean assured him. "Been workin' there since high school. Bobby trusts me. He's more my dad than my dad ever was."

Cas raised a curious eyebrow, but didn't push it. "If you're sure. And we could discuss Prufrock while you work, if you like."

"Romantic," Dean teased. "Neck deep in engine grease and shitty poetry."

Cas frowned at him. "Eliot is _not_ \--"

"Yeah, yeah," Dean interrupted. "Don't get your panties twisted. Can convince me while I'm fixin' up your shit." He pulled out his phone. "Uh, if you wanna give me your number, I'll text you the address."

Cas plucked his phone out of his hand, and Dean again felt his gaze drawn to those elegant fingers tapping away. Cas' phone buzzed on the table, and then he handed the phone back.

"I texted myself so I'd have it saved," he said. "I hope that's okay."

"Course," Dean said. "Uh -- see you Sunday, then. Like… one o'clock?"

"Perfect," Cas agreed, smiling. He bent his hand in a precise wave, then his fingers danced again, and Dean could pick out a D and an A. "Goodbye, Dean."

By Sunday morning, Dean was fidgeting nonstop. First he put on his nicest jeans and a button-down shirt, before remembering that he was going to be spending the afternoon under the hood of a car. He picked up his work jumpsuit, then made a face at it, throwing it back into the closet.

Finally he settled on an old pair of jeans, torn and snug, and a worn AC/DC t-shirt. He wandered out to make coffee, then jumped when his roommate was already perched on the kitchen counter, clasping a mug.

"Dude, Charlie, since when are you up before noon?" he asked, pouring himself a cup.

She snorted. "Uh, since my asshole roommate's been up since like dawn, preening himself like a teenage girl on a date?"

"Oh, my God," he groaned. "In the first place, I have not been up since dawn. In the second place, I'm pretty sure if me changing clothes in my room wakes you up, you're weirder than I thought."

"OK, I might have still been awake," she admitted.

"What, breaking into -- you know what, don't tell me."

"Um, Patch 6.1 comes out on Tuesday," she said, affronted. "I have to make sure my hunter is ready for battle."

"Fucking nerd," he said affectionately. "Can't believe you almost got me hooked on that game."

"Your own fault for botting with a program _I_ didn't write," she returned. "Anyway. You're up early, you're not wearing stained sweats, and you even smell like you showered. What gives?"

"I'm not a total slob!" She gave him a look, and he sighed. "I may have uh, a… not-a-date."

Charlie raised her eyebrow. "You know you're gonna have to do better than that, Winchester."

"Jesus, can't you even wait 'til after coffee for interrogation?" he grumbled. "All right, so I… kinda have a crush."

"And you didn't _tell_ me?" she squealed. "Who is she? He? It?"

"This is why," he said, but he couldn't help laughing. "Uh, he. He's a sign language interpreter for someone in my class."

"Oooh," she sang. "Good with his hands?"

"I wouldn't know," he informed her.

"Yet."

"Well, I can only hope.

"That's my boy," she agreed. "OK, but where are you going in those ratty clothes? Do I need to dress you again?"

"No, Charlie," he said, batting her hands away. "I, uh… I may have lied and told him I had a deaf roommate, and I needed lessons."

Her eyebrows climbed higher, and a look of glee spread across her face. "So I get to pretend to be deaf? This is _awesome_! Hold on, I'll look up --"

" _No_ , Charlie," he interrupted. "Sorry to burst your bubble, but I told him the truth."

She looked at him quizzically. "So-o-o… you're just… ?"

"Well," he supplied. "It's actually kind of neat. And he said he could help me with American Lit. If I worked on his car. So."

"Oh my _God_ ," Charlie squeaked. "I ship this so hard."

"Go back to swooning over Inara and Kaylee and leave me out of this, you weirdo."

"Fine," she said, undeterred. "But you gotta teach me some signs. There's this hot deaf druid chick in my guild, dude, you gotta be my wingman and help me get her on Skype."

"You are such a slimeball," Dean said, laughing and walking back to his room. "Yeah, OK, if you shut the fuck up I'll ask Cas how to compliment her heals."

"She's a bear tank, you sexist dick!" she yelled after him.

Dean shut his door with a shake of his head, but as usual, Charlie had managed to manipulate his nerves into exasperated amusement.

He checked his phone, and the nerves flared back up halfway.

From: Cas  
 _I'm afraid I might be somewhat late._

Shit, Dean thought, of course, the guy wanted to cancel. He started typing out a nonchalant assurance that it's fine, but then the phone buzzed again, with an attached picture. Frowning curiously, he swiped it open.

Cas was sitting at a table with his chin on his hand, an unamused expression on his face and white powder coating his face and hair. He choked out a surprised laugh, and clicked back to the message.

From: Cas  
 _Gabriel insisted on making breakfast this morning. You'd think, after twenty-two years, I would know better._

To: Cas  
 _hahahaha. man, you weren't kidding about him, huh. no worries, dude, I'm heading down to the shop anyway, plenty of cleaning and paperwork and shit to do. lemme know if you'll be more'n an hour or so._

From: Cas  
 _I shouldn't be. Barring any further fraternal atrocities. Or homicides._

Dean grinned, tucking his phone back into his pocket and feeling substantially lighter. He snagged his keys and a water bottle from the kitchen before wandering through the living.

"I expect results, Dean!" Charlie yelled from her bedroom. "For at least one of us!"

"Go to _sleep_ , Charlene!" he called back, and ducked out the door.

At the garage, he unlocked the door and surveyed the service bay, kicking uncertainly at the dust, suddenly convinced impeccable, well-dressed Castiel would be revolted by the dirt and grease. He turned on the aging stereo, then turned it off, then turned it back on again, shoving an old copy of _Physical Graffiti_ into it and grabbing a broom.

He swept the floor of the garage, losing himself in the music. "If my wings should fail me, Lord," he sang, spinning around, "please make me another pair." He opened his eyes to belt out the next lyrics, then froze at the sight of the dark hair and blue eyes in the door.

"Shit," he mumbled, ducking away to turn down the music. "Sorry, I, uh --"

"Don't stop on account of me," Cas assured him, and he blushed.

"I like to blast music when I'm alone in here, makes the chores go quicker," he said.

"Understandable. Though somewhat prohibitive when someone is trying to knock."

Dean flushed harder. "Jesus, I'm an asshole. You weren't -- were you waiting long?"

Cas rolled his eyes. "Dean, I'm the one who's late, without much notice. And no, of course not. I heard the music, so I assumed I could step inside." A slight tinge of pink crept into his face as well. "I admit I may have watched you for a minute. Or two."

"Well, at least I wasn't trying to sing along to Freddie today," Dean said weakly. He threw the broom into the corner and pushed the hair out of his face, finally looking at Cas, and his mouth went slightly dry. Cas' neat slacks and shirt had been replaced by a pair of jeans hanging low on his hips and a loose grey shirt.

He coughed. "OK. Well. Lemme open the garage door and you can bring her in."

Cas nodded, then turned, rummaging in his backpack. He pulled out a slim book and tossed it to Dean, who caught it reflexively. "First poem in there. We'll trade off. Deal?" He flashed Dean a crooked grin, and something ridiculous twisted in Dean's stomach.

"Deal."

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr at [relucant](http://relucant.tumblr.com). I'm nice.


End file.
